


Cabbages and Kings

by Ashura



Series: The Bard and the Blade [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Beginnings, Gen, Interesting NPCs Mod, Live Another Life Mod
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:30:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3421094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashura/pseuds/Ashura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't supposed to be a grand adventure. It was supposed to be mundane, a day's journey at most. Rorikstead to Whiterun, then a carriage to Solitude. It wasn't supposed to be this way. But then, destiny seldom follows a set path.  (Eventually, Bards College and Companions and dragons. For now, giants and cabbages.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cabbages and Kings

The pale beginnings of sunlight crept over the plains, and with it came the sounds of farm life awakening with the dawn – the hungry cackle of the chickens in the yard, the lowing of shuffling cattle on the hillside. The early morning chill bit into the skin, and Angharad pulled her cloak tight around her as she rose to stoke life into the fire. Her aunt and uncle were already awake; she could hear Aunt Geraldine outside, calling to the chickens.

The door creaked open, and Uncle Salvius stood silhouetted, his broad body blocking the dim dawn light. “I want you to be careful,” he said without preamble, striding into the little farmhouse. “Are you sure you want to go by yourself? Ennis will be up and about again in a few days.” 

Angharad nodded. “But the earlier crops will be wilted by then, and Whiterun is used to them fresh. Really, Uncle, I'll be fine. It's only half a day's journey to the city. I'll be warm, happy, and singing in the inn before it ever gets dark.” 

His big hand rested on her shoulder. “I know it isn't far. But you've heard how it is now. The war has the Jarl stretched so thin, the patrols on the roads aren't what they should be. It used to be you only had to worry about wolves, but the bandits are bolder than ever, now....”

“Bold or not, bandits aren't likely to bother with a cartload of cabbages,” Angharad said, more confidently than she felt. Maybe bandits were really quite desperate for cabbages; she wouldn't know. “I'd be more worried about the Forsworn up the hill. And the giant camp off the road.” Seeing his face darken, she flashed a determined smile. “Except the Forsworn don't bother Rorikstead because half of us are real Reachmen, and the giants mind their own business. Truly, Uncle, I'll be fine. I'll stick to the road, and take Papa's axe.” 

The fire was hot at last, and she stirred a bit of dried fruit into yesterday's porridge still hanging in the cooking pot. “I'll keep what I need to get to Solitude, and send the rest of the money back by courier as soon as I can.” The reality of it slowly dawned on her. She would be going to Solitude, to the Bards' College, at last. She'd been saving up enough to get to the capital for seasons now, and wanting to be a bard for longer still. She had an informal sort of competition on with Erik, the innkeeper's son, over who would make it out of Rorikstead sooner. He wanted to be a mercenary, but he was still working as a farmhand for Lemkil, trying to get up the money for the armour which his father – quite reasonably, she thought – wouldn't let him go without. 

“Solitude.” Uncle Salvius smiled at last, a faraway look in his eyes, and shook his head. “And when we see you next, you'll be a proper bard. Oh, little songbird, your mama and papa would be so proud of you.” 

Angharad leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I know.” 

Aunt Geraldine returned from feeding the chickens and checking the beehives. She never talked much, even to her family, but her weathered hand brushed Angharad's hair as she passed. The three sat together in the lantern-light, eating the thick, warm porridge. It was a quiet, peaceful sort of morning, but as much as Angharad wanted to savour it, she was also eager to go. By the time the sun was full up, she had dressed, tied up her hair, and filled her satchel with a few things to see her on her journey – a what little gold she had, some food and a waterskin, her mother's copy of _Wayrest: Jewel of the Bay_. She strapped her lute to the cart, already full with the latest harvest – from Shoals' Rest, but also the Rorikstead farmers who were used to selling their goods in Whiterun. It was a trip Ennis normally made, who worked at Cowflop Farm, and he'd promised to take her with him. But then he'd been wounded by a sabre cat who wandered too close to the village for comfort, and she was to make the journey alone.

She pulled her grey cloak around her and hooked her father's war axe on her belt. She wasn't a warrior, and likely never would be, but everyone who lived in Skyrim had learned ages ago it was best to have some way to defend yourself. She had the axe, and she would have Wolf, if she needed him. She hoped to not need anything – the patrols may be stretched thin with the war, but the main roads to the hold capitals were still busy enough with travellers. 

Bertie, the old donkey, was to be sold as well; Ennis had already arranged it. He stood placidly at the edge of the road until Angharad took his lead, and then he marched on with uncharacteristic complicity. Angharad's aunt and uncle kissed her goodbye and wished her luck, and she promised to send the courier back with word the very first minute she could. 

Rorikstead was already busy, even this early. The guards nodded politely at Angharad as she passed through the village, their faces obscured by their closed helmets. She always wondered what they looked like underneath – their voices didn't always give much away. One told her to stick to the road and be careful of Brittleshin Pass, another was already grumbling about how he'd be happier with a belly full of mead. 

“Nords!” she teased him. “It's still morning.” Bertie plodded along the road. She waved to little Sissel, already looking for a hiding place from her bullying sister. Her father, Lemkil, was already in his field, and Erik with him, weeding potatoes. 

He straightened when he saw her, and jogged out to the road to catch her up. “You're off to Whiterun?” he asked wistfully.

“Aye,” she nodded. “And Solitude, after. I'll be a bard by the time I come back.” 

Erik's eyes were bright with jealousy. “I wish I could. Are you sure you're all right going alone? I could come with you. You know, just in case.” 

With very real regret, Angharad shook her head. “I'd love it, you know. I'd rather have your company on the road than go alone. But didn't your da already say you couldn't?” 

Erik's face scrunched up in distaste. “He says I can't be spared, like he has every other harvest for the past eighteen years. I don't think he's right. But I suppose somebody has to keep an eye on Lemkil. And his girls.” He twisted around to shoot a look back toward the field, where the lean farmer stood glaring savagely at his crops. “He's drunk again. It's barely breakfast time.” 

Angharad reached for his hand and gave it an impulsive squeeze. “You are so good,” she said honestly. “I'll keep an eye open. If I see anyone selling good armour, or needing a sword arm....”

He squeezed back, his hand dry and calloused around hers. “Thank you. Send me a letter from Solitude? Tell me if it's just like I imagine it.” 

She made a little bow, and grinned. “I'll do my bardic best.” They were nearly to the southern end of the village, where the high elf Reldith stood in her field, one hand raised to them. It was as warm a greeting as they would get from her. “Of course I'll write you. I'll see you later, Erik.”

“See you later,” he said, and though he walked with her a little further, past the path up to the bluff where a group of Forsworn lived, it felt as though that was their real goodbye. “Be careful on the road, songbird.” Even after he stopped, he stood watching the road until she was out of sight.

And then she and Bertie were on their own. The plains of Whiterun Hold stretched vivid and peaceful to the west; to the east the mountains Druadach Mountains rose in a fierce, jagged line against a cloud-heavy sky. The next few miles she knew well enough – she may have spent her childhood in High Rock, but she'd been in Skyrim long enough to learn the road, the passes, the caves and fields closest to her home. Faced with an empty road, she settled for quietly singing _Eyldi the Bear_ to the rhythm of Bertie's hoofsteps against the stones in the road. 

They passed Gjukar's Monument, a great tall pillar in a circle of smaller standing stones, its frayed banner fluttering in the crisp autumn wind. It still gave her the chills whenever she passed it, as if some lost spirit from that ancient battle still walked the field that commemorated such destruction. Bertie didn't like it either, and his steps slowed further. 

The banner slapped eerily against the stone. Angharad watched it for a moment, and softly sang the first few bars of _The Battle of Greenspring Hollow_ as if the music were an offering to whatever spirits rested there. The wind caught the words, carrying them to the stone pillar and drowning them in the air. 

Beyond the monument, she could see the great brown bulk of a mammoth making its way along the plain. There would be giants with it, she knew, although she couldn't yet see them. There were two in the camp nearby, but they had never been a problem. Like most of the other farmers, she and her aunt and uncle would paint one of the cows every year, and lead it up the nearby bluff for the giants. It bought them peace, and no small protection, since the giants, even unknowingly, kept the wolves and sabre cats and even bandits from coming too close to the farms. She'd heard stories, mostly from the hunters who occasionally passed through the village, of giants who took to attacking travellers and passersby, but she had always assumed that the passersby had probably done something to deserve it. Even so, when it happened, the Jarl would put out a bounty on the giant and some wilderness hunter would be a hundred septims richer. Probably several more would be dead. Giants were no easy prey.

She saw them, then, following the mammoth, their lanky grey bodies moving with their strange swinging stride. One had a club the size of a tree trunk; the other carried the body of an elk slung over its shoulders. They had long, stringy dark hair and wore only ragged loincloths, but they had painted their bodies with dotted swirling designs. They paid no attention to her or Bertie, but still the donkey dragged the cart stubbornly to the far side of the road, and really only calmed once the giants and their mammoth had disappeared from view.

The way curved to the east, and Angharad could see them again, closer now, heading south across the plain. For a single rider with a good sword-arm, it would have been faster to reach Whiterun by riding due east across the bluffs, but for a simple farmer and a cabbage cart, the road was far safer. The giants were not the only things to haunt the wilderness of Skyrim.

It was nearly midday, and she'd seen no other soul since leaving Rorikstead. “There ought to be more people,” she told Bertie, who was not at all a good conversationalist, or a substitute for an actual human. For a moment she considered summoning Wolf, but he wasn't really very good company either, and his presence made Bertie nervous. But then the clip-clop of a horse's hooves sounded on the road behind her, and she turned to see who was there. 

She'd expected a hunter, or even an Imperial outrider. But this was clearly a nobleman who sat straight and stiff in his fine embroidered clothes on top of a chestnut stallion. Next to him walked a man in Legion armour, a sword at his side and a bow on his back. They caught up to Angharad and Bertie with no trouble, and she raised a hand in greeting. 

“Well met the road,” she offered, but the man glared down at her from atop his horse. Short dark hair was cropped close to his balding head, and his neat beard was streaked with grey. 

“I have nothing to say to you,” he said in a haughty voice. His accent was Imperial, smooth and sour. “Do not bother me, peasant, or I shall have my guard see to you!” 

Angharad's mouth dropped open. She meant to tell him she was a gentlewoman of Wayrest, a landowning farmer of Skyrim, and certainly not a peasant, but she couldn't quite manage to force words past her shocked disbelief. 

The guard rolled his eyes and grinned at her. He was young and clean-shaven, and his eyes were bright blue. “Don't worry,” he whispered. “He's like that. He's still trying to deal with the fact nobody in Skyrim knows who he is.” 

Angharad couldn't imagine anyone wanting to make a closer acquaintance. “Who is he?”

The guard fell into step beside her, and even reached over to give Bertie a pat on the neck. “Lord Amantius Astius of Chorrol. And I'm Marius Valius, Quaestor in service of His Imperial Majesty Titus Mede II and currently bodyguard to one of his very – very – distant relatives. Since you asked.” 

She blushed, ducking her head. “Sorry. I was about to. I'm Angharad Shoal. I have a farm a little north of here, and I'm on my way to Whiterun. For obvious reasons,” she added, gesturing to the cart. 

Marius turned his head, looking as if he were appraising the cabbages. “Smuggling, surely?” he teased. “Daedric weaponry, maybe, under all those cabbages. With soul gems stuffed inside them.” 

Angharad snorted. “Because I look like a Daedra smuggler?” 

He shrugged, and grinned again. “You don't look like a farmer, either. Farmers have weathered faces and sunburn. I should know, my parents are farmers. Also, you're too young.” 

“I'm not!” she protested. “But I suppose you're not too far off. It's only half mine. It's the family farm, really. My grandfather left it to his two sons – my father and my uncle. I inherited half when my parents died. But I'm really going to be a bard.” 

“Are you?” Marius asked, eyeing her keenly. “Does that mean you sing?” 

She thought her face was probably pink again, and apparently he wasn't going to believe it was sunburn. “Yes, but not till I've been paid in advance. Information should do.”

His grin was broad, easy, like sunshine. “What do you want to know?” 

She glanced back at Lord Astius on his horse. He was still glaring. “Why are you in Skyrim, if you're from Chorrol? The weather's not very nice, and it's not friendly to outsiders, especially from Cyrodill – there's a war on.”

“Yes,” Marius agreed, “I know. But the Emperor has a cousin in Solitude, and she's getting married to some princeling from the Rift. Since that's not a thing that happens often, everyone with an invitation or a claim to one will be descending on Skyrim. I suppose by rights I could have been sent here anyway to fight the Stormcloaks. Not the worst fate,” he added, his very blue eyes meeting hers, glinting under the silver of his helm. “The company seems friendly enough so far. And I like the weather. He's from Chorrol, but I'm from Bruma. This isn't too different from home.”

“And I'm glad of the company,” Angharad said, meaning it wholeheartedly. Lord Astius might be miserable, but Marius wasn't, and having a proper soldier at her side made her feel a good deal safer. “But aren't you going the wrong way? Solitude is north.” 

Marius shrugged. “I only do what I'm told. He wanted to go through Whiterun. It's out of the way, but we have the time, and I think he has business contacts there. Besides, Solitude is where the Bards' College is. Aren't _you_ going the wrong way?”

“I wasn't going to walk to Solitude with a cart full of cabbages,” Angharad said dryly. “I have to sell all this in Whiterun, first. Then I'll hire a carriage.”

Marius glanced back at his employer, his face thoughful. “Are you in much of a hurry? We won't be in Whiterun more than a few days. It's slower than a carriage, but you could always come with us.” It was his turn to duck his head. “I just don't like the thought of leaving a fair maiden to the mercies of the road. Even with a carriage driver. I'd rather be able to keep an eye on you.” 

“The carriage drivers of Skyrim,” Angharad said loftily, “are renowned throughout Tamriel for their valour. But I'll think about it.”

“Do,” said Marius. “And in the meantime, I'll buy you a drink at the inn once we're all safely in Whiterun. If you'll accept one from a foreign soldier, of course.” 

Angharad's laughing reply was interrupted by a bray from Bertie. It was a grating, tuneless, shocking sound, even familiar it put her on edge. Astius shouted, “Quaestor!” and Marius drew his sword almost before the word was out. Angharad put her hand on her axe. 

A chilling howl, then, and a growl that scraped along the skin. “Wolves,” said Marius, but he didn't sound afraid, and moved confidently in front of them. “Get back, I'll take care of them.” 

He'd barely got out the words before a growling mass of grey fur leapt at him. Even with his sword ready it bore him to the ground. Another was already biting at Astius' heels, and another harassing Bertie. The donkey let out another grating bray and bit. Angharad pulled the axe from her belt, her other hand moving to summon Wolf.

He appeared with a ripple of light, bigger than the wild wolves, glowing and transparent. His echoing howl rang in the air as he leapt, digging his teeth into the pack leader's throat. Marius had just run through the one that had downed him, and was getting to his feet. Angharad was readying her axe when something fierce and stinging hit her in the shoulder. She jumped away with a yelp, spinning around to find Astius swinging his sword at her. 

She scrambled backward in shock. He was shouting things that made no sense, and there was still a wolf behind her. Bertie kicked at it and the cart rocked. Cabbages spilled over the road. Wolf, standing over the dead pack leader's body, noticed a new threat and leapt at Astius. 

“Wolf! No! Stop!” she shouted. The sword came swinging at her again. A strong arm wrapped around her shoulders as Marius yanked her away. 

“ _Calm down!_ ” he bellowed, and his voice was clear and ringing. Angharad had heard the Imperials of Cyrodill could put so much force into their words, but she'd never heard it before. The effect was instant. Astius lowered his sword. 

But it was also short-lived. The ground shook suddenly, and Astius' horse reared up, knocking its rider to the ground. The chaos and shouting had attracted the giants, who, prepared to defend their camp from trespassers, charged thundering onto the road.

Marius' eyes widened. “Hide,” he said, breathing hard, and pushed Angharad roughly toward the rocks on the side of the road. He raised his sword as she scrambled out of the way, into the shadow of the painted boulders.

The next few moments happened too fast. She saw the giants' club swing, heard Wolf's howl as he vanished into Oblivion. Shouting, a flash of sunlight on steel, a sickening thud. Angharad pulled the hood of her grey cloak over her head and prayed to any of the Divines that might be listening: to Kynareth for strength to Marius' sword-arm, to Stendarr to keep her hidden, to Arkay to preserve them all. She huddled trembling in the shadow of the painted stones, hardly daring to breathe or look out from the folds of her hood, waiting for what seemed like the inevitable blow of the giant's mighty club.

It never fell. The giants' footsteps still shook the ground, but they were growing quieter, further away. She didn't move, didn't look up. She didn't dare. The devastating silence told her what she would see. If Marius or Astius were still alive, they would have spoken by now. Even Astius would have said _something_. Angharad stayed where she was until her knees went stiff, afraid to open her eyes. 

When at last she did, it was as awful as she'd feared. Astius and Marius were dead, crushed by the powerful swing of the giants' tree-clubs. The horse had fled in its panic, and though some things had fallen out of its saddlebags, onto the road, there was no sign of it. Only Bertie was still there, looking as if he would very much rather not be, but couldn't be bothered to run away. Giants as a rule only hurt animals if they meant to eat them; they wouldn't have seen the donkey as a threat. 

Angharad murmured the first words of a healing spell, just in case, and knelt by Marius' body, feeling for even the barest flutter of a pulse. There was none. She knew, logically, realistically, there was no chance of his living, not with the trauma his body had just undergone, but she cast the spell anyway. A faint gold light spread from her hand and sunk into his skin, but it faded, and he still did not move. 

In the end, she made Bertie wait while she dragged their bodies off the road and burnt them. She went through their pockets first – Skyrim had a way of instilling in its inhabitants a ruthless practicality – and lay them side by side on the grass. Their bodies were heavy and awkward and messy, and it was long and dirty work that took more time than she meant it to. She gathered up a bouquet of blue and violet mountain flowers anyway, and scattered it over them. After a good deal of thought, and with a distinct feeling of guilt, she kept Marius' sword, and put it in the cart near her lute. When they looked as peaceful as she could make them, she cast a spell to set them alight. 

It exhausted her almost immediately. She had the talent for conjuration that most Bretons were born with, and Wolf had been with her since childhood. But she'd never been drawn to Destruction, or had much ability in it. She could manage flames enough for a cooking fire or a lamp, but had never tried a funeral pyre before. 

The sun was too far west; she couldn't stay and make sure it kept burning if she wanted a hope of reaching Whiterun by nightfall. She said a quiet prayer over the burning bodies, gathered up fallen luggage and cabbages into the cart, and took Bertie's lead. He was only too ready to move on. They walked together, stunned into a miserable silence. When she heard a howl in the distance, she summoned Wolf, and after an answering, threatening howl he walked protective and transparent at her side. 

It was common wisdom in Skyrim that life could change – usually for the worst – in the blink of an eye. Angharad knew this. While her mother had suffered from a long illness, her father had died after falling from his horse when it stepped in a hole. That was the sort of accident, of sudden misfortune, that people talked about. But she wasn't there to see him fall. She'd never witnessed it for herself, or smelled the awful stench of people recently dead, or tried to wipe the remains of their insides off her hands. She'd never buried someone half an hour after he'd been flirting and offering to buy her a drink.

The shadows lengthened over the prairie as the mountain peaks slowly swallowed the sun. Bertie and Angharad passed the great shadowy bulk of a ruined fortress, the burnt-out remains of a house. They could see Dragonsreach, the great keep of the Jarl of Whiterun, perched on its mountain to the east, its great tower as insistent and misleading as a wisp. They kept to the road. 

It was twilight by the time they reached the western watchtower. It was crumbled, in such disrepair Angharad didn't even realise it wasn't just another ruin until she saw the guards patrolling its perimetre, all in Whiterun gold. “Oh, thank the Divines,” she said aloud, and even Bertie picked up the pace. 

A guard, holding a torch and with a greatsword strapped to his back, crossed in front of them on the road. He looked at her, and even with his closed helmet, she could tell from how he moved that he winced. 

“By Shor, are you all right?” he asked. Even though it was the first words anyone had spoken to her in hours, it felt like the first of her life. She looked down at her blood-caked dress and the gore on her boots and shook her head. 

“My companions are dead,” she said flatly. It didn't matter, somehow, that they'd only been her companions for as much time as it took her to bury them, or even that Astius had attacked her. He was confused; Wolf had frightened him. Marius was supposed to buy her a drink.

The guard put a hand on her shoulder and steered her away from the road. “You're almost to the city,” he said gently. “The Bannered Mare is a straight line down the road from the main gate, in the Plains District. Hulda will set you up with a good hot meal and a warm bed. All right?” 

She nodded dumbly, and the guard pressed something into her hand. “In the meantime, you look like you could use a drink. Here – steady, now. Just take a good long gulp.” She tipped the bottle back against her lips and did as he said. It was mead, of course, thick and honey-sweet. It did warm her insides. She hadn't noticed they were cold. 

“Honningbrew,” the guard said, conspiratorial and proud. “Best in Skyrim. Here, you keep the rest of the bottle. You need it more than I do.”

She swallowed again. “Thank you.” 

“You're welcome.” His hand dropped away. “Can you see the city from here? It's only about a mile more, and the road is patrolled from here to the gate. You'll be all right.” 

“Yes,” Angharad said, and added, again, “thank you.” Clutching the mead bottle, she picked her way back to the road and once more took Bertie's lead. He walked restlessly, impatiently, and she couldn't blame him. She longed for the comforting walls of the city even as she dreaded reaching it. There would be inevitable questions, shocked or sympathetic looks. When she'd envisioned her triumphant entrance, it was never with blood on her clothes.

At last she made the last turn toward the main gate. A carriage stood outside a stable, his driver dozing in the box and a bored guard leaning against her shield. A man called to her from the yard. “Need somewhere to keep that donkey for the night?” 

Somehow, in the last few hours, she'd forgotten she couldn't just bring Bertie into the inn with her. She'd also managed to forget she was selling him. Right at that moment, he felt like her only friend in the world. 

She led him over to the stable. “How much? It's only the one night, I'm selling him tomorrow. It would have been today, but....” She trailed off, lamely. “We were late.” 

He hadn't looked at her before; he did now. She felt the weight of his gaze, the shift from surprise to appraisal as he looked her up and down. Finally he said casually, “Rough day?” 

When she laughed, there was an edge to it. “What gave it away?” 

He only said, “You leaving the cart, too?” She nodded. “Then why don't we just settle up in the morning? I reckon if you go running out on me, I have a donkey and a lot of food to sell off. More likely you won't, and I can see from here you could use a bath and a drink. Name's Skulvar Sable-Hilt. I'm always here, so I'm pretty easy to find.” 

“Angharad Shoal.” She leaned heavily against Bertie's solid, comforting side. “I'll be at the Bannered Mare.” She left Marius' sword under the cabbages, but took her lute, her satchel, and the clothes from Lord Astius' bag. She could make them work somehow. At least they didn't have bits of dead person on them. Gathering it all up, she gave Bertie a final pat. “Thank you.” 

“Ride strong,” said Skulvar. “And go have yourself a drink.”

She didn't ride strong, that particular night, but she did have a drink. The guard at the gate took one look at her distressed face and bloody dress, and waved her through, and she stumbled into the trade city that was the heart of Skyrim. 

Whenever she thought, later on, of her first impression of Whiterun, it was of light. Even though night had fallen, lanterns and lampposts brightened the streets. Bright paper lanterns strung across the rooftops reminded her it was nearly Harvest's End, and some windows already held the gourd-lights that would last until Tales and Tallows. The square was full of people, chatting and laughing as the shops closed for the night. Angharad held her cloak close about her to hide the blood as she made her way to the inn.

The Bannered Mare was full of light and music. It was warmer and more cheerful than the Frostfruit Inn back in Rorikstead, although that might just have been that Erik's determined cheer was no match for Lemkil's sour grumbling. That inn was empty; a meeting place for a few farmers to share a mead before they went home for the night. This inn was bustling, busy, alive. Angharad almost wished it wasn't. Heads turned as she entered, but the attention was blessedly short-lived. The landlady behind the bar took one look at her and called her over.

“Come in, get warm. We've just stoked the fire.” Angharad made her way to the bar, and the woman's expression softened. “Run into trouble on the road, did you? Don't you worry, we'll set you to rights. Saadia!” A young Redguard woman appeared almost immediately at her elbow. “Go run a bath. And get the blue dress out of my wardrobe, it'll keep her until we get hers washed.” 

Angharad murmured a thanks, but the woman waved it away. “As I said, don't worry. We'll deal with what needs dealing with, first. I'm Hulda, and this is my inn. For a while longer, at least – I keep meaning to retire, but I never have the time.” She motioned to the lute slung over Angharad's shoulder. “You're a bard? You know any Breton jigs?” 

Angharad blinked, and nodded. “Of course. I grew up in High Rock.” 

“Good.” Hulda smiled. “Go get cleaned up, and if you're up to it after you've had a bath, give us a song or two. Mikael's too attached to his ballads and love songs. It'll be nice to have a bard for a few days who can get people to dance. Now, go with Saadia.” 

The Redguard barmaid was beckoning from a doorway, and Angharad shuffled after her. “It's only warm, not hot,” she said, “but I'll bring up more water once it's heated. There's a bit of dried lavender and blue mountain flower I've thrown in that should make you feel better. What happened on the road? Where were you coming from?” 

“Rorikstead,” Angharad answered dully. “It all happened so fast. I—I buried them.” 

Saadia looked at her kindly, and steered her up a narrow flight of stairs. “Then you did as right by them as you could,” she said firmly. “Now, right through there. Get in if it's warm enough, or wait till I can heat some more.” There was a metal tub inside a small bedroom, filled with clear water and the dried petals of mountain flowers. Angharad dipped her hand in.

“I'll get in now. I just want to be clean again,” she admitted, and Saadia nodded. 

“Of course you do. You go ahead then, and I'll bring the rest up when it's ready. There's a dress of Hulda's you can borrow there – just leave yours on the floor.” Saadia dropped a clean rag and a block of ash soap onto a chair near the tub and bustled out the door, leaving Angharad alone. 

She peeled off her blood-crusted clothes and let them fall to the floor. The room was just above the kitchens, and the rising heat made it comfortably warm. She loosed her hair and climbed into the tub, sinking down into the water and the scent of the crumbled flowers. 

She was alive. That was the important thing. As traumatic as the encounter on the road had been, Astrius and Marius were still strangers, really. A kind stranger, in Marius' case, who had teased her and flirted and ultimately saved her life, but in the end, she hadn't known him. He came from Bruma. Perhaps she should send a letter to his family to tell them. Astrius' carelessness was likely what brought the giants in the first place. Their deaths were not her fault.

She repeated the last part to herself, over and over. 

She must have been at least whispering, because Saadia heard her. “None of that,” she said, but gently, kneeling by the tub with a pot of steaming water. “It's hard, isn't it? Being the one who lives. Here, pull your knees up so I don't burn you.” 

Angharad did so, gratefully, and Saadia poured the contents of the pot into the tub near her feet. “We hadn't been travelling together long.” That could mean anything; it could have been an hour or a week. “A soldier saved my life. But the giants killed him.” Saadia made a wordless, comforting noise and began to work the ash soap through Angharad's hair. “I know it isn't my fault, and I'm lucky to be here, but I can't get them out of my head.” 

“You're in Whiterun now,” Saadia murmured soothingly. “That's as safe as you can be in Skyrim. The walls are strong, the city guard know their work, and the Companions will take care of anything that attacks their home.” Her graceful fingers carded through Angharad's hair, working through the tangles of the road. “This is a good inn, and Hulda is a saint. Even if you're low on coin, she'll keep you warm and fed for a few songs and a bit of help chopping firewood. Especially if they're lively songs – she's always on Mikael to play something that gets people dancing and drinking, but he keeps going back to the lovesongs.”

“I can play lively songs,” Angharad promised, feeling dull and distant. Her mind began to wander, but at least it wandered away from the scent of death and burning flesh and the horrible crushed angle of Marius' bones, so it was a relief. She thought of Wayrest, the pavilions flying bright banners in the market, the green fields of Stormhaven and glittering water of Iliac Bay. Of Cherese in the Cloudy Dregs, her bright hair and laughter as she poured drinks for travellers. Of Erik back in Rorikstead, swinging his rusty old sword at the potato plants. 

She was still in a bit of a daze when Saadia helped her out of the tub and into the folds of a blanket, when she finally dressed in Hulda's spare dress and plaited her wet hair loosely into a thick, dark damp braid down her back, when at last she made her way downstairs. The daze was good, the daze helped. She took out her lute and played “Mogo's Mead,” and the fast version of “Ithguleior” that no one outside Stormhaven knew, and “Lady Morgiah's Jig.” The fire made the hall glow golden and cast dancing shadows across the walls, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and honey. Mikael, the golden-haired bard of the inn, knew the old sailor's lovesong “Stagger and Sway,” and they sang and impromptu duet that made her suddenly ache for the city of her childhood. When she looked too tired to go on, Hulda patted her shoulder and put a mug of mead in her hand, and Saadia bustled her off into a bedchamber to rest. She collapsed into blankets and soft rushes, and could still hear the hum of drinking and laughter from the other side of the wall. 

This was Whiterun. She had arrived.

**Author's Note:**

> I never meant to be one of those people who writes stories about their video game characters, but somehow it feels like it gives them more life. (Also, I was inspired by the Calmerion stories – little incidents rather than trying to actually write out the whole thing. Although the thing with the noble and the wolves and the giants happened – I really thought I was going to lose my poor level 1 character on her first day out, but somehow hiding behind a rock worked. The game makes its own good stories, sometimes.) Quite a few mods you may recognise, quests and places you undoubtedly will, and though I'm perfectly happy if I only entertain myself, I still hope someone else might get a bit of a kick out of it. :)


End file.
